drift, float, flow
by EFAW
Summary: Of all the people Travis is Drift compatible with, it justas to be Ranger Wesley Mitchell. Oneshot. Pacific Rim AU.


**Summary: **Of all the people Travis is Drift compatible with, it just has to be Ranger Wesley Mitchell. Oneshot. Pacific Rim AU.

**Warnings: **I fudged so many things in this fic. Um. Death of minor characters. Some violence. Some swearing.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law or Pacific Rim in any way.

**Pacific Rim AU. Because every fandom needs at least one.**

**OOOO**

**drift, float, flow**

"_Memories. Don't chase them in the Drift. Let them flow. Don't latch on. Stay in the Drift…the Drift is silence."_

—_Rahleigh Becket_

**XXXX**

Returning to the LA Shatterdome is like coming home.

For a long minute Travis stands in the doorway, the hustle and bustle washing over him. Familiar, in a way he remembers all the way to his bones, recollections rising to the surface and sweeping over him in a fit of nostalgia. Everything comes back, and it feels like he never left.

He grips his bag and takes a breath. The feeling is unexpected. He hadn't known _what_ to expect when he returned—he just hadn't expected to feel like _this_, like he was coming back to someplace he'd belonged.

(To be fair, his brain murmurs, this _is_ the only place he's ever belonged, truly and fully. This is the only home he's ever had.

Travis squishes that little voice down and ignores it.)

"Ranger Marks?" The pretty brunette who's been his guide since he stepped off the bus comes back to him, eyes wide. "Are you alright?"

Travis takes one last look around him, swallowing the feelings in his throat. He hefts his bag up on his shoulder and nods. "Yeah, I'm fine."

She smiles warmly at him. "Then we'd best be going. The marshal is waiting."

**XXXX**

"Ranger Marks. You look well." Marshal Sutton waves a hand, gesturing for Travis to sit.

He does, tucking his bag beneath the indicated chair. "Thank you, sir. You do too."

Sutton hasn't changed much. Travis doesn't know what he was expecting—it's only been two years. Then again, it's been two years in a war zone, and that's enough to age anyone beyond their years. The marshal seems to have taken the passing time well. He's not as angry as Travis remembers, a little smoother in temperament, but little else has changed.

Travis doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

He crosses his legs, leaning back in his chair and trying to seem nonchalant. "So, what's up? Why'd you call me in?" He has a suspicion, of course, but until he hears it said…

Sutton sighs, folding his hands on the desk. "We need you to come back."

Yup. There it is.

"Come back. As what? A trainer, a mechanic?"

"As a pilot."

Something leaps in Travis's chest, an awful sort of hope. He crushes it before it can get too high, letting out a bitter little laugh. "You must be awfully desperate, if you're calling _me_ back in."

The marshal doesn't laugh, just stares at him stonily. "Haven't you been watching the news? We _are_ that desperate."

The mirth slides away like it never was.

Sutton continues. "We're losing the war, Ranger. There are more kaiju coming every year. We're losing Jaegers faster than we can build them and pilots faster than we can train them. We need every experienced hand we can get."

Travis snorts. "I take it you don't believe in this wall they're proposing to build, then?"

The older man sighs. "No one here does. No one who knows what a kaiju can do, anyway. You've fought them. Tell me, do _you_ honestly believe the wall will stop the kaiju?"

No. He'd laughed when he heard about it on the news. Then he'd gotten drunk and explained to Money in exquisite detail exactly why the wall wouldn't do what they said it would. No, Travis doesn't believe in the wall at all.

Sutton sees it on his face and nods sagely. "That's why we called you back."

"But why? In case you don't remember, sir, I don't have a co-pilot. I can't Drift. Unless you want me to suicidally dive-bomb a kaiju, what good am I as a pilot?"

"You can Drift."

"Yeah, with _Paekman._" Two years, and Travis can almost say the name without feeling like he's lost a brother. _Almost_. "That was a one-in-a-million. You just happen to have another one of him lying around?"

Marshal Sutton stares at him, and his body may not have aged much, but his eyes carry the weight of a thousand years. "Don't worry about that. We'll find you a co-pilot."

Yeah, Travis will believe that when he sees it.

With a sigh, the marshal picks up a tiny rake for one of those little desktop sand gardens. "I'm sure it's been a long day. I'll let you get settled. Dakota will lead you to your bunk." A clear dismissal if he's ever heard one. Travis grabs his bag and stands.

The pretty brunette is waiting for him outside the door. Right before he steps through, Sutton calls his name. He pauses, turning back.

The marshal gives him a small, tired smile. "Welcome back to the Corps, Ranger Marks."

Travis throws him a small, sharp salute before he trots after Dakota.

**XXXX**

His bunk is moderate, like every other bunk in this place. And it's only got one bed.

Travis feels a pang in his chest. He tosses his bag on the thin mattress and looks around. "What, not even a potted plant to keep me company?"

Dakota hides a small. "I'll leave you to your unpacking. If you need anything, just ask." She nods her head politely and moves down the hall, leaving the door open.

Travis turns, looks around the room. Bare walls, smooth floors. A few empty shelves for his stuff, a tiny closet for his clothes, and a teeny weeny attached bathroom. Not unfamiliar.

Except there's one bed, when there should have been two. He'd claimed the top one, before Paekman could get in a word, and he'd stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling, and he'd laughed when Paekman grumbled that he was a grown man, he didn't need a nightlight—

Travis shakes his head and backs out of the room. He'll come and unpack later. Right now there's too many memories swirling up, and he just needs to walk them out.

**XXXX**

Once upon a time, the LA Shatterdome held up to a dozen Jaegers. Definitely not the largest Shatterdome in the Rim, but big enough. Now, the hanger only holds three, and it feels so damn empty.

Travis wanders through, ignored by most and gossiped about by the rest. He ignores them in turn, tuning out the din and clatter and staring up at the massive Jaegers.

That one, matte black and sleek as an arrow, is Black Lightning. Travis remembers her. Remembers her team, too, a right pair of bastards named Crowl and Henry. Travis met them, once, up by the Seattle coastline. They'd definitely made an impression, and not in the good way; Paekman had commented, later, that he'd never met a pair of people as nasty as kaiju, but those two came close.

Lightning is silent, the entire right side a mess of wires and repairs. Her pilots are gone, and sparks fly as the crews work on fixing her. Travis takes a breath and keeps moving.

Topaz Tigress is in the next bay, larger than life. A Mark II compared to Lightning's Mark III, she's bulkier and heavier, but she stands fierce and imposing. Travis doesn't even have to dig in his brain to come up with her pilots—Kate Cafferty and Amy Laroche. They've been stationed out of LA since the beginning, and Travis remembers many a long Friday night losing at poker against those two women. Damn good pilots. He's glad they're still fighting.

The next hanger is empty. Dakota was explaining, on his brief tour, that November Eden is up in Anchorage, after the loss of yet another Jaeger up there. Travis can't honestly say he's too broken up about that. Phil Kronish, Eden's pilot, used to get on his nerve like no other, and his partner Morgan didn't help any.

Travis passes two more empty hangers. These ones aren't waiting for a Jaeger to return home like Eden's; these are merely shells, because there are more hangers than Jaegers to fill them. It makes something in Travis's stomach clench, and he wonders just how bad the situation really is. He tried not to watch too much TV, during his brief sojourn. It just reminded him too much of what he'd lost, what they were all still losing. Jaegers and pilots falling by day, and Travis turned off the TV because otherwise their names would circle in his head and demand to know why he wasn't there too.

That was something he didn't need to deal with.

He stops in front of the remaining Jaeger, staring up at her. She's blue and red, a brand new Mark IV, larger than life and ready to fight. Eleventh Hour, they call her, and Travis almost has to smirk at that. The eleventh hour, and they're pulling in the second-string to lead the charge. It's almost ironic.

He stares up at the hulking metal machine, and there's a pang of regret at the thought of riding another Jaeger. He and Paekman…but Travis walked away, and Aurora Blaze went to another pair of pilots. A pair that didn't make it out of Argentina, fourteen months ago.

And now there's a new Jaeger, fresh off the line, and a washed-up pilot who doesn't have anyone to co-pilot with. Oh, yes, this is going to be interesting.

He tucks his hands into his pockets and resists the urge to introduce himself. They're just machines. The life and soul behind them comes from the pilots.

Travis hasn't earned the right to become her pilot yet.

**XXXX**

He sleeps uneasily, when he finally does get to sleep. He wakes in the middle of the night, listening for Paekman's snores, wondering why his stars aren't on his ceiling for a long five minutes before he remembers.

Groaning, Travis rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. Maybe he shouldn't have come back after all.

**XXXX**

Dr. Ryan is nice, in a bland, psychiatrist sort of way. Travis doesn't trust her as far as he can throw her.

"I'm only here to find you a co-pilot," she tells him, which doesn't make him relax, because that mean's trying to find him someone to Drift with and _that _means she's going to try and crawl inside his head and figure him out.

But all she does over the course of the next few days is ask him a lot of questions and give him a few tests. She watches him on the simulator for three hours at one point, making continuous notes, and Travis desperately wants to know what she's writing. She refuses to tell him.

Finally, on the fourth day, she smiles genially at him and folds her hands neatly on a small stack of folders. "We'll start testing tomorrow."

**XXXX**

The first candidate comes out bouncing on her heels like an overexcited puppy. Travis drops her in three moves.

He leans on his staff, grinning a rattlesnake smile. "That all you got?"

**XXXX**

By the fourth day of testing—his eighth since returning back to the Shatterdome—he's getting frustrated, the marshal's getting frustrated, and even Dr. Ryan seems ruffled.

He spins his staff under this latest guy's leg, dropping him to the floor. "4-0," he snarls, tapping the guy on the collarbone.

Then he bounds to his feet, tossing the staff to the side. "Are you happy now? I _told_ you I can't Drift. I'm not compatible."

Dr. Ryan stares levelly at him. "I'm not giving up. This merely means I need to redefine my search parameters."

Travis grabs his boots and stalks out in a huff.

**XXXX**

"Heard about your test today," Kate says, plopping down on one side of him in the mess. "That sucks."

"How many is this now?" Amy asks, sitting on the other side. "Ten, twelve? I've _never_ heard of anyone being incompatible with so many people."

"Especially not since Dr. Ryan joined the PPDC," Kate adds, taking a bite of her mashed potatoes.

"That's true." Amy nods, scooping peas onto her fork. "She's pretty good at what she does. And what she does is match people."

Travis scowls at the meat on his plate. "Thanks, you're both so very sweet to say all that."

The two women flick their hands, the motions following the same path as though they're synchronized. Co-pilots, the both of them, and it shows. Even when they're not in the Drift, they move like they are.

Travis used to do that, with Paekman. Now it looks like he may never get the chance again.

He doesn't think they're trying to be mean. Not deliberately. But there's a question there, one lingering beneath every word they say. One he's been asking himself since he got here.

_What good is a pilot who can't Drift?_

**XXXX**

It took over a year to find Paekman.

The stronger a connection with a person, the stronger the Drift. Travis's problem was that he'd never really connected to people. Oh, he had family members and friends, but it was all skin-deep. He didn't connect because he didn't _allow_ himself to connect. Years of moving from one foster home to another taught him early on that connections would only hurt him. Connections would make leaving that much harder.

He didn't realize how much it would hinder him, how hard it would be to find a Drift partner when he couldn't connect with anyone beyond the superficial. Because, more than anything, Drifting is about trusting someone else inside your own head, and Travis has never trusted anyone like that since he was a child.

But he kept trying, every time they had someone they thought might work. He kept trying, because more than anything else he wanted to be in a Jaeger. He wanted to be _doing_ something to keep the world safe because it was the only thing he _could_ do. Ever since the first kaiju rose out of the sea, the only thing he wanted to do was help. But he couldn't even do that much.

Then he met Paekman.

It was a chance meeting in the mess that ended with the two of them sitting and chatting for an hour after everyone had filed out. It wasn't anything in particular that did it; Travis liked the guy, and he liked talking to the guy. But that, apparently, was enough.

Within a week they were hanging out pretty much whenever they had the free time. After two, Marshal Sutton suggested they see if they were Drift compatible. Travis didn't think it would work, it never did, but he took up the staff and they sparred and—

It was like dancing. It was a dance he'd always known but never performed, his feet and hands moving into the right rhythms and matching Paekman step for step. _This _was what it meant to connect with someone.

And when they entered the Drift for real, it was the dance all over again, except inside their heads. Memories and feelings shifting, connecting, two minds meeting and moving as one. Travis had never felt anything like it. It was _amazing_.

And with this, he could finally pilot. A year of searching, and he found the person he'd fight with. They'd probably die, but at least they'd die together, taking out a kaiju with their one last breath. It was the thing they both knew, deep in their hearts where no one could see except themselves.

But then Paekman died, and it wasn't even in a Jaeger. It was on the street, a random mugging gone wrong. Just some guy, but with a handful of bullets Paekman died in an alley and Travis was adrift once more. His co-pilot gone, just random twinges of memory and sensation in the back of his mind, and nothing to look forward to again. There wasn't another Paekman. There wasn't going to _be_ another Paekman, and they had enough pilots now they didn't need a has-been hanging around.

So he left. Just gathered up his stuff, left a letter on the marshal's desk, and walked out.

Two years later, and it's the same thing. He just can't Drift.

**XXXX**

He's stomping to his bunk when he bumps into someone going the opposite direction. And he's in a bad enough mood he just scowls and snaps, "Watch where you're going, man."

"I _was _watching where I was going," a familiar voice snaps back. Travis narrows his eyes and looks up.

Wes Mitchell, the asshole in the bunk down the hall, glares darkly at him. The pretty dark-haired lady from LOCCENT—Alex, Travis thinks her name is, though he hasn't really been paying attention, since he's pretty sure he's never getting in a Jaeger again, so why bother learning names?—stands at his side, because those two seem to be perpetually joined at the hip.

These are the things he knows about Wes. 1) He's a recall, like Travis. Was in the program, shit happened, and he got out, until they called him back. 2) No one likes him, because, as noted, he's an asshole.

And 3) he doesn't like Travis much. Which is fine, because Travis doesn't like him very much either.

He bristles, in the mood for a fight and thinking he's found the perfect someone to give him it. "If you were watching where you were going," he says, in what _sounds_ like a perfectly reasonable tone but is in fact very pointedly barbed, "Then you wouldn't have walked into me."

A vein in Wes's jaw jumps. "This hallway is only so wide. You should have had your head up, then you would have noticed my standing there and gotten out of the way."

"Wes, maybe we should…" Alex puts a hand on the blonde's arm, and tries to draw him away, but Wes's temper is flaring to match Travis's, which is just what he was hoping would happen.

Travis smirks and flicks Wes the bird.

"Wide enough for you to walk around me, asshole."

"More than wide enough for you to _pay attention._" Wes leans back on his heels, arms crossed. "Or were you ruminating on your latest failure of a Drift test?"

Travis grins. "Oh, man, I was hoping you'd say something like that."

Then he hauls back and punches Wes in the face.

**XXXX**

The first time he meets Wes, it's day six of his re-recruitment, after yet another unsuccessful Drift test. He's wandering around in a sulk, trying to find Kendall's office, because Kendall is always good for a talk, and he knows there's always guys in J-tech who can score him bootleg alcohol if he needs it. He takes a wrong turn and ends up in Jonelle's lab, which is a scary place full of vats of kaiju bits and tables of, like, entrails and stuff.

Jonelle is presenting some finding or another to Marshal Sutton and a group of rangers and technicians, one of whom is Ranger Wesley Mitchell (though Travis won't know that for another ten minutes). Travis wanders in, listens to half the talk, and gets bored, so he starts perusing the lab. He doesn't touch anything, it all looks disgusting and _slimy_, but he entertains himself by looking.

He doesn't notice when Jonelle stops talking, not until he hears a sharp, "_What_ are you doing?"

He starts guiltily and turns, hands behind his back. "Hi, Jonelle," he says with a sheepish, small smile, acting as innocent as possible because it's not like he was _actually _touching anything here.

Jonelle crosses her arms, and the tattoos on her arms shift and seem to move, kaiju and Jaegers flaring to life and battling with the movements of her muscles. Travis recognizes a lot of the visible ones. He thinks he sees a kaiju he and Paekman took down, way back when, and one or two of the Jaegers he used to fight alongside. He doesn't say this to her at all, because that one night they had together long ago left her feeling sore at him, and he doesn't need to get any more on her bad side than he already is. (Also she's kind of scary, what with the kaiju obsession and everything.)

She doesn't take his smile or his innocence in the vein they were intended. If anything, her glower gets even fiercer. "What are you doing in my lab?" she demands, stalking towards him.

He backs up, trying to find the least amount of words to explain his being here. Before he can, however, he jostles a table.

A table containing a chopped-up kaiju bit.

The bit shimmies and shakes and then falls over the edge, squishing to the floor and splashing corrosive blood and goo onto the boots and pants of one of the observing rangers. The ranger stares at his ruined clothes, a vein in his eye twitching. Then he glares up at Travis, sharp enough to cut through kaiju skin.

Really, it was kind of the ranger's fault for standing so close to the table in the first place, because everyone else in the room was at least two steps back and nowhere near the splash zone.

Travis may make the mistake of saying this aloud. The vein in the blonde ranger's forehead gets more prominent. He takes a breath. Then he starts yelling, getting increasingly red in the face, and when someone yells at Travis, he just has a habit of yelling back.

And that's how he meets Wesley Mitchell.

**XXXX**

There's something incredibly satisfying about fighting. Not even fighting—fighting has rules, generally, even some minor level of decency that both participants agree to. This is just _brawling_, rolling around on the ground throwing punches and kicking and getting dirty, biting and scratching and pulling hair. This is nothing like the organized duels in the Kwoon Combat Room; this is just letting go and releasing the pent-up anger and frustration with someone who gives as good as he takes.

Wes isn't holding back, and it's refreshing, in its own sort of way. Travis hasn't been able to fight like this since he got back, and with everything that's going on…

Well, it's just sort of nice to let go and fight without thinking about it, is all.

Someone—it was probably Alex—went off to grab assistance, and it's not long before hands are pulling the two of them apart. Travis growls and tries to throw them off, but there are at least two guys holding him back, and two more on Wes. He's not getting free easily.

But the fight wasn't a total loss. Wes's lip is split and he's got the beginnings of a wicked bruise on his cheek. Travis's own eye is swelling, and his knuckles are going to be hell in the morning. All in all, it wasn't a bad fight.

Travis grins, blood still boiling, and just wishes it hadn't ended so soon.

Then he sees Marshal Sutton standing in the hall, a disappointed look on his face, and Travis's smile slips away. Wes sees him, too, and immediately shrugs out of his captors' grips, tugging at his shirt and trying to make himself presentable, which is tough with blood dripping down his chin.

The old Sutton, the Sutton Travis knew back when, would have started yelling right about now, voice echoing off the walls. This Sutton just sighs and stares between the two of them and says, "Really?" and somehow that's worse than the expected yelling. Travis's stomach clenches.

Sutton shakes his head. "Get cleaned up," he orders, "and then get away from each other." Still shaking his head, he turns and moves down the hall.

Wes pulls a handkerchief—an actual fucking _handkerchief_—out of his pocket, pressing it against his lip. Alex appears out of nowhere, concern on her face and a hand on his arm, leading him down the hall. Wes glowers at him over his shoulder, gaze sharp like ice, until they turn the corner.

Travis yanks himself free, flexing his fingers and checking the damage. Not the worst he's done to himself, really. Without a word to anyone in the hall, he stalks the opposite direction, back to his bunk, where he'd been headed all along.

He slams the door behind him, and sits on his bed, and wonders, not for the first time, what the hell he's doing back here.

**XXXX**

Travis has heard good things about Mitchell. He has. People may not love him to pieces, but they say he's a good pilot. (Well. He's got a fantastic score on the sims, at least.) A bit of a stickler for the rules, and kind of stiff, but no one else has that many problems with him. Maybe because he sticks to himself and is really only seen hanging out with Alex from LOCCENT.

Travis has heard all of this, but none of it is in evidence whenever he's around the other man. Because all that ever seems to happen when he's around Wes is they bicker. Not even banter, which is at least light-hearted, but full of sniping at one another with their words. Travis has never had such an instant dislike for someone.

There's just something about Wes, he rubs all of Travis's edges the wrong way. Travis can't quite explain it. He wishes he could. He just doesn't like the guy.

**XXXX**

There's a gentle knock on his door. Travis presses the ice to his eye a little more firmly and hollers, "Come in!" and doesn't bother to sit up.

Dr. Ryan enters. "How are you doing?" she asks, leaning against the doorframe.

He makes an aborted half-shrugging motion, bruises flaring the life as he moves. "Like, in general, or right now?" One hand waves a lazy circle around his face.

"Either," she says. "Both. Whichever you want to talk about."

"Not big on _talking_ about stuff." He shifts again, trying to find a comfortable position to lay in. "I'm fine, doc."

There's a pause. "If you wanted to talk about your anger, my door is always open."

He snorts. "Yeah, no. I've had enough people digging into my head. I don't need another."

"Then how," she asks, mildly amused, "do you ever expect to allow someone else to Drift with you?"

He turns, staring at her with his one good eye, and his smile is strained. "That's the million-dollar question, ain't it?"

She doesn't say anything, just watches him with those bright, appraising eyes, like she can see right through him. Travis is the one who looks away first.

After a minute of silence, the doctor says, "I have another candidate in mind. I'll schedule your testing for a few days, when your bruises have healed a bit."

Travis snorts and rolls his eyes, even though that makes a twinge of pain flair. "Come on, doc. When are you going to admit it's not happening and give it up? I can't Drift."

She just smiles, small and enigmatic and the sort of smile that says _I know something you don't_. Travis has always hated smiles like that.

"Haven't you heard, Ranger? It's the end of the world. Now is not the time to be giving up."

**XXXX**

There's really no telling who his next text candidate might be. Sometimes the choice is obvious, people he's talked to or sat with at lunch—he was actually more surprised Randi wasn't a better match for him, considering how well they get along. Sometimes it's not—He's still not sure why Dr. Ryan thought Dietz would work out with him, considering they've barely said two words together since he got here.

In the end, most of the time Travis just has to accept that Dr. Ryan sees _something_. She's successfully matched half a dozen pairs in the time she's been with the PPDC. Sure, she hasn't had any luck with Travis, but Travis is a special little snowflake who likes to make things difficult.

The point is, most of the time, Travis believes Dr. Ryan knows what she's doing, even if the end result isn't what anyone hoped for.

Travis is pretty sure this time she has no clue.

**XXXX**

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

Wes crosses his arms, that familiar vein in his jaw jumping. "I'm not exactly jumping for joy over here either."

Travis turns to the doctor. "Seriously? _Him?_"

She gives him that enigmatic smile again. "Are you ready?"

"No, I am not ready, I—"

"Ranger Marks." Marshal Sutton's voice is sharp as steel, cutting through his protest like a whip. Travis straightens without thinking about it. The Marshal glares at him. "You will perform the test."

And Travis wants to argue, he really does, because _Wes?_ But he knows better than to argue with the Marshal. Sutton may not fly off the handle like he used to, but he's still the leader of the Shatterdome for a reason.

So he acquiesces. He grits his teeth and kicks off his boots and picks up the staff. On the other side of the mats, Wes does the same, leaning down to place his boots side-by-side with pinpoint precision, standing stiffly with a perfectly straight back. He is all lines and angles, and Travis relaxes in retaliation, smoothing out, until the only straight line on him is the staff in his hands.

He flows onto the mats, like a panther, like a snake, like water. Wes steps forward, falling into perfect form, lines and angles again and again, a wall against him, but everyone knows the wall doesn't work, and Travis wants to laugh at how easy this will be.

He doesn't. He'll save that for his victory.

Sutton takes a short, sharp breath.

"Begin."

**XXXX**

"This is ridiculous."

He moves, sliding across the mats, smooth as quicksilver. He is not worried, he is not anxious. He is completely calm, confident in his ability to win.

Wes snorts. "You're telling me." He follows Travis's movements on the opposite side of the mats, circling, circling, circling, watching and waiting for any weakness. For any sign to strike.

The blonde continues. "I mean, of all the foolish, stupid people to try and partner me with…"

A flash of temper sparks, flaring red, and just for a moment, he loses concentration, the calm chill in this fight.

Wes sees it and takes his chance. He spins across the mat, a deadly whirlwind in three steps, and Travis defends himself but Wes easy knocks him aside, staff swinging around-

In the stunned silence of the Combat room, Wes ever-so-gently taps his staff against the side of Travis's head. "1-0."

Travis grits his teeth, readjusts his grip. Okay, maybe not so easy after all. It's a damn good opponent who can get the first strike on him. But Travis isn't one to give up that easy.

"I'm not foolish or stupid," he chirps, sliding across the mats. "You're just anal."

A flicker, a flash, a glimmer of broken composure, and Travis moves, sweeping across the mats, swinging around. The end of his staff hooks around Wes's knee, brings him down, and the end of Travis's staff kisses the back of Wes's neck.

"1-1."

Wes climbs to his feet, eyes burning with the first light of competition. They resume their positions, watching and waiting, and Travis can almost see Wes doing the same as him; reevaluating and cataloging, because this won't be as easy as either one of them hoped.

"You're reckless," Wes says. "You're impulsive, you act without thinking, you attack without provocation. You're going to get yourself killed."

He launches himself forward, spinning, staff a blur in his hands. He comes right up under Travis's guard, wood pressed against the sharp line of his collarbone and triumph on his face. "2-1."

Travis barely waits for him to step back before he's moving, staffs clacking sharply together, _rap tap rap_ in a cadence that's almost familiar. He knocks Wes's staff aside, smacking the end lightly against Wes's ribs, and he grins, a rattlesnake smile. "Reckless impulsive action leads me places. 2-2."

They retreat to their side of the mats. Travis is breathing a little heavier than normal, and his body aches, the bruises from their fight the other day not quite healed yet. He wonders if Wes is feeling the same.

There are spectators on the edges of the room, people who have wandered in since the battle started. He sees Kate and Amy, standing side by side with their shoulders touching. He sees Alex, on the other side of the room, standing behind Sutton with her arms crossed and eyes wide. Crowl is standing in the doorway, beside his weasely partner Henry, watching the fight with avid attention.

Travis wonders what's so interesting. None of his other battles have garnered so much attention—after the first dozen or so, people quickly lost interest.

He doesn't get to think on it long, because Wes is moving again, leaping like a tiger, and the man may be made of lines and angles but he can move damn fast when he wants to. And then it's just block block defend attack parry block parry, pushing and backing across the mats. Everything falls to the wayside. This is a fight that _matters_, and Travis can't afford to be distracted.

Wes's staff jabs into his belly, a little more forceful than necessary, and he crows out, "3-2."

But on the heels of that breath, Travis's staff is pressed against his chin, and he murmurs, "3-3," and Travis's entire being seems to explode with fire. This is what it means to be reckless, he thinks, to have fire burning in his chest and nothing inside of him saying _don't leap into the flames. _

He's never felt this way towards another person before. It's amazing.

There's hardly a second's pause this time, both of them leaping into the fray. Wes is good, really good, moving from form to form, defending and attacking in equal measure, but Travis keeps up. Not because he himself is that amazing (though he'd totally say that to anyone watching), but because he can almost sort of see how Wes is going to move next. It's not that Wes is predictable—he should be, with his reliance on proper forms and every, but he's _not_, not exactly.

It's like a dance, fought with staffs and bodies; Travis knows what the next move of the dance is, and he falls into step. Bodies moving together and feet stepping almost in sync.

It was steps to a dance he's always known but never performed, because he'd never had the right partner. He'd had a partner, once, years ago, but it was a different dance with Paekman, a different connection.

This is…

This is _compatibility_, and Travis never thought he'd find it with someone else again.

It freezes him, clenches his chest in surprise and makes the fires flicker in confusion. Because apparently not only is he compatible, he's compatible with _Wes_, and—_really? Wes?_ Of all the people in the world, it has to be—

Wes drops him to the floor, because he's an asshole like that. He sweeps Travis's feet right out from under him, and Travis falls hard to his back, all the breath whooshing out of him. Then his knee is on Travis's chest, further squishing any remaining air Travis may have had inside of him, and his staff is dug into Travis's throat.

Travis looks up at the man above him, chest heaving and eyes bright, and thinks, _You're the one? REALLY?_

Wes doesn't get it, not instantly. Not until he whispers, "4-3," the score falling off his lips without purpose, floating between them as realization dawns. There's a spark in Wes's eyes that feels like the crashing of waves over his head. Travis would know; he just felt it himself.

Someone claps. They both jump, having entirely forgotten anyone else was there. Wes scrambles off of Travis, leaping to his feet. Travis takes a moment to get his breath back, staring at the ceiling while his mind spins in circles.

_Wes? Wes_, Ranger Wes Mitchell, the asshole. _Really?_

"I think we've seen enough," Dr. Ryan says, dimly, somewhere off to the left. He can hear her and Marshal Sutton murmuring amongst themselves. Can hear the crowd slowly start to disperse when they realize the fight's over.

Can hear when Wes neatly replaces is staff and slides into his boots, and every footstep walking away seems to echo for a thousand years.

Travis heaves a breath and just stares at the ceiling a little while longer.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

**XXXX**

"I can't believe this." Travis paces Dr. Ryan's narrow office, hands gesticulating wildly. "There's got to be some mistake."

"I don't believe there is," Dr. Ryan says calmly, like she doesn't have an outraged Jaeger pilot in her office.

He reaches the wall and turns on his heel, stalking the other way. "No way. There's _no way_ we're compatible. Have you seen how we are together? We get along like oil and water. Like-like a house on fire!" He throws up his hands. "We have nothing in common!"

She gives him _that smile_, enigmatic and mysterious and—and _sneaky!_ "Oh, I think you two have more in common than you realize."

He stares at her. "Like _what?_"

But she merely continues to smile and doesn't say a word.

He shakes his head. "No. Come on, he hates me. A feeling which is totally mutual, okay? I don't like him either."

She leans back, studying him with that damned know-it-all expression. "Well, perhaps what you need to do, then, is figure out _why_ he dislikes you so much. I think it will be very illuminating."

He shakes his head. "No way. You're wrong on this one, doc."

But she simply continues to smile at him. "I think you two will be very good partners."

**XXXX**

Wes makes a face like he just stepped in kaiju slime. "What do you want?"

Travis puts his hands on the doorframe and asks bluntly, "Why do you hate me?"

The blonde actually looks surprised. "I don't hate you."

Well, that's news to him. Maybe Dr. Ryan is right and there _is_ something there, something they have in common.

Wes ruins all of this by saying, "I _loathe_ you."

Travis just stares.

Wes crosses his arms, shoulders tight and jaw jumping. "You shouldn't be here. You can't Drift. They need pilots, and you can't do it."

Travis bristles, fingers tightening on metal. "Hey, I can Drift."

The look Wes shoots him is scathing. "You Drifted with one person, _years_ ago. Everyone else, hah. Your mind is a seriously messed up place. No one can fit. And if you can't Drift, you're useless. It's the end of the world, we don't need anyone who's _useless._"

Travis is trembling, gripping the doorframe so hard he almost thinks he'll bend the metal in his bare hands. It is taking everything he has not to leap on the man and just throttle him.

Wes scoffs and shakes his head. "Why are you even here?"

Travis throws himself away from the doorway, from _Wes_, stomping to his own bunk. He slams the door shut, leaning heavily against the wall and just trembling in rage.

It takes a long time for him to calm down.

**XXXX**

The worst part is, he wonders if Wes isn't right.

It's nothing he hasn't thought before.

**XXXX**

"You're wrong," he tells Dr. Ryan. Snaps it, really, because he's still wound up too tightly from what that _bastard _said. He lingers in the doorway, on his way to the gym to murder a couple of punching bags. "You're absolutely wrong. I have _nothing_ in common with that man."

Dr. Ryan merely folds her hands on her desk and studies him. "I see."

He leaves before she can tell him _what_ she sees.

**XXXX**

The gym helps. He punches until his hands are raw and aching, letting his anger out on the bags. He punches until his arms feel like soggy noodles and his head spins. Then he punches some more.

By the time he finally collapses on the bench, he's no longer the only one in the room. He swallows half a bottle of water in one go and musters up an exhausted smile. "Hey, Randi."

Randi, a long ago girlfriend and one of the people Dr. Ryan had tried (and failed) to partner him with, smiles. "Hey, Travis." She stretches, and Travis takes a moment to appreciate the way she bends. She gives him an eyebrow that says she knows exactly what he's doing and is merely allowing his scrutiny. "How are you doing?"

"I'm alright." Shrugging takes an effort and a half, and he thinks he might not ever move again. Maybe he overdid it.

Going by her judgey judging face, she certainly thinks so. "Are you sure? I think if you hit it a couple more times, the bag might break apart. Or you will, either or."

He shakes his head and takes another swig of water.

She hums thoughtfully, stretching in the other direction. "It's about Mitchell, isn't it?"

And just like that, the anger and frustration bubbles to the surface. He thought he'd burned it out with the bag, but he hadn't—he'd just banked it, momentarily, shoved it down in the weary ache that's rolling through his bones, but her words make it all rise to the surface once more.

He explodes. Verbally, not physically because he doesn't know that his body would supports the sort of wild, angry gesticulating that normally accompanies his ranting.

And rants he does; he vents about it all, about that first meeting and every subsequent meeting after. She knows about the Kwoon test, of course, knows about their supposed compatibility, because gossip travels fast in the Shatterdome, especially among Rangers, but he tells her about the rest of it. About what Dr. Ryan said and the failure of a conversation he had with Wes.

"I don't know why _anyone_ would think we have anything in common," he snarls, squeezing his water bottle until plastic creaks.

Randi listens to his ranting solemnly, arm pulled in front of her as she stretches. When he's finally done (for the moment, he's sure he can come up with more in an instant if she gives him a chance) she frowns a little. "But you know," she says, switching arms, "Wes can't Drift either."

Something doesn't seem right with that sentence. Maybe he shouldn't have gone after the bag so hard. "Sorry, thought you said Wes couldn't Drift."

"Well, he can't." Randi clasps her hands together, stretching high above her head.

He stares at her. "What do you mean he can't Drift?"

"You know." She waves her hand. "He just…he can't."

"Why?"

Now she frowns at him. "_I _don't know. He doesn't share his life story with me. But that's what's going around. He can't Drift the way you can't Drift. There's just…no one he's compatible with." She shrugs, dropping to touch her toes. "Maybe that's why Dr. Ryan thought you two would work together?"

He snorts. "What, 'cause we're the odd ones out?"

She shrugs again, upside down. "Something like that."

**XXXX**

He thinks about that conversation, later, sitting on the edge of his bunk as he bandages his knuckles. Hands carefully flat on his stomach, he lies back, staring at the ceiling and feeling the aches in his arms. Oh yeah, he definitely overdid it.

But he doesn't think about that. He thinks about _He can't Drift the way you can't Drift, _and he wonders if maybe Randi has a point.

Maybe Dr. Ryan is right. Maybe they _do_ have a little more in common than he thought.

Wes is still an asshole, though.

**XXXX**

Dr. Ryan comes by before dinner, knocking on the door when he's debating whether or not to just cut off his arms before they can ache any more. "Your Drift test is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon," she announces.

He turns and blinks at her. "We're still doing that?" He would have thought the way he stormed into her office and told her very pointedly that _it was never going to work_ would be a clue to stop the Drift test.

Apparently not.

"Absolutely." There's that smile again, and Travis wishes mind reading was an actual thing outside the Drift, if only so he could know what's going through her head right now.

"I will see you tomorrow, then," she declares, nodding politely. She moves from his doorway and down the hall, no doubt to inform Wes of the upcoming test.

Travis groans and thumps his head against his pillow. Fantastic. Tomorrow he gets to actually swim around in the asshole's head. Even if they don't end up Drifting completely, there will be enough shared to make things _suck. _At least it won't be another compatibility test, though.

Well, no, because he's apparently found his co-pilot. Damn.

Travis takes a few deep breaths, deciding his first course of action is to shower, eat, and find some painkillers.

Then…well. Then it's time to do some digging.

**XXXX**

First rule of warfare: Know thy enemy. It's what they're doing with the kaiju, why K-Science even exists in the first place. The more they know about the kaiju, the better they can defend and fight against them. It's common sense, really.

Same goes for this.

Not that Wes is _technically_ his enemy. They're on the same side and everything. But the same idea applies. Travis does not know enough about Wes, and if they're going to be sharing headspace any time soon, he wants to change that.

Basically what he knows is this: Wes is a recall like him, he can't Drift (according to Randi), and he has a stick up his ass ten feet long. But there's got to be more, got to be something else that connects them other than mutual loathing, and Travis would really like to know what he's getting into tomorrow.

So research it is.

**XXXX**

He starts with Kate and Amy, because gossip among the Rangers is pretty standard. He plops his tray down before them and leans in close and demands the 4-1-1 on Wes Mitchell.

The two women raise identical eyebrows. "Why?" the blonde asks.

"Everyone knows you hate him," Amy adds, something almost like amusement in her words.

"And everyone knows about the Kwoon test." Travis picks up his fork and starts poking his mashed potatoes. "If the guy is going to be inside my head, I want to know what I'm getting into."

The two women exchange a look, thoughts and feelings passing between them without a word being spoken. Travis remembers that, remembers sharing entire conversations with Paekman without opening his mouth—

No. Not right now.

"Good point," they agree, turning back to him. Amy takes a small sip of milk (from a real cow—sometimes it's nice to have Ranger privileges.) "But there's not much to tell. He's quiet. Keeps to himself."

"Kind of an odd duck," Kate muses. "Very private, which is hard when we live in a tin can."

"That's not very helpful," he grumbles sourly, without any heat. It's kind of nothing he wasn't expecting. Wes doesn't interact much, doesn't socialize the way the others do. Mitchell doesn't talk to anybody.

Well, he talks to one person.

As if she's read his mind, Amy offers, "You could ask Alex, from LOCCENT. They're pretty close."

Travis thought about that, and then promptly dismissed that idea. As far as he can tell, Alex is pretty much the only person Wes interacts with on a daily basis. With any intimacy, that is, because they're all living in the same Shatterdome so it's pretty easy to see the same faces day in and day out. But Wes and Alex are close, anyone can see that, they eat together and hang out together on their off hours, and sometimes in their more intimate moments they'll brush hands or lean in close like there's something _more_.

(Travis doesn't think there's _more_. He's asked around, vaguely, and, like said, gossip travels fast. But it's not just _nothing_, either. He has no idea what it is, really.)

"I'll think about that," he says without conviction, because he's pretty sure if he went to Alex for information, Alex would take Wes's side and not Travis's.

He taps his fork against the side of his tray. "What about before? You know what happened to make him leave in the first place?"

They shrug. "His co-pilot died," Kate says, in an _Isn't that obvious? _voice. At her side, Amy rolls her eyes, like _Duh, obviously, isn't that why you left?_

Travis frowns, thinking back. "Silver Star, right? Down in…what was it, Lima? Mitchell and Padua, right?" He may not have paid much attention to Wes, back when he was still a pilot, but there weren't (and aren't) so many of them that he didn't know _of_ the guy. He could probably name every fallen Jaeger and their pilots, even if he'd never met them before.

There never were _that_ many of them.

Amy nods. "Mm-hmm. Got taken out off the coast of Peru by Leviathan. They fished Mitchell out of the water. Never found his partner."

"Wow." Travis can't even imagine what that must be like. He lost Paekman in an alley in the city, and it felt like a piece of his soul had been away. If Mitchell and Padua had been _connected… _ He can't even imagine it.

It gives him a little more sympathy for Wes. Doesn't mean the guy has a right to be a huge jerk ass to everyone he comes across, but still.

He leans in close, murmuring in a low whisper, "They say he can't Drift."

The two women look at each other, faces shifting. "They say that," Amy eventually allows in a tone that says _That's completely true but we're above gossip._

"They say he's had some difficulties connecting to people in the past," Kate adds, and her voice says _But we're not so above gossip we won't spread it when we hear it._

Travis's gaze darts around, as though Wes will appear any second because they're talking about him. "Any idea why?"

"Not really." Kate and Amy shrug identically, and Amy taps the end of her fork on the table. "There are theories around, that he's got intimacy issues like yours."

Well. So much for not gossiping. Travis winces a little at the hit.

Kate frowns thoughtfully. "There are those rumors that say it's neurological, though, cuz of his, you know." She wiggles her fingers like that's supposed to mean something to Travis. "But the compatibility, it isn't an exact science, you know?"

Travis does know. He knows that all the people he _should _have been able to Drift with, according to all of Dr. Ryan's little charts and tests, were complete failures, and the one person he can't stand to even be around is the one person he's supposedly compatible with. It's not an exact science at all, and it's annoying as fuck.

He spoons some gummy mashed potatoes into his mouth, swallowing thoughtfully. "Neurological, huh?" He wonders what that means, what they're implying.

"Thanks, ladies," he says absently, giving them a vague smile. "That's helpful."

Not exactly what he was looking for. But it's a damn good place to start.

**XXXX**

There are things he could do. Wes has a personnel file. Dr. Ryan probably has a file on everyone in the Shatterdome, every Ranger and tech and worker she's ever talked to. Travis could break into that and read it.

But that option is a little bit illegal, and with the chance of getting into a Jaeger again—even with _Wes Mitchell,_ ugh—looming, he's not going to do anything to risk his chances. So, tone down the illegalities. Sounds like a plan.

He could go to Alex. He could find her in a moment of free time, corner her alone and ask her questions. Try to lay it out politely and logically, make her see that he's not trying to be cruel or mocking or spiteful, he just wants to know what sort of person is going to be inside his head tomorrow.

But he doesn't think that would work. Alex is _Wes's_, his something-or-other, and all she's ever really seen of Travis is him arguing and fighting with the blonde Ranger. Why should she give him what he wants? There's no reason.

Asking around the other people in the Shatterdome doesn't help. They all have the same assessment Kate and Amy do: Wes is very private and keeps to himself. No one knows much about him, other than the official story.

He tries one last place before giving up.

**XXXX**

Kendall's lab is a cluttered mess of computers and Jaeger blueprints. The programmer is sitting at her desk, feet tucked up beneath her, just like he expected she would be—because really, Kendall hardly ever seems to leave her lab. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she just lives in here, breathing and eating and living Jaeger code and Breach mathematics. Who the hell knows.

But Kendall is his closest friend in the Shatterdome, his buddy since before he left the program, and she's also one of those people who tends to have lines of contact everywhere and always keeps her ear to the ground. Which is damn impressive for someone who rarely (if ever) leaves her lab. If there's anyone he can go to for information, it's Kendall.

Unfortunately, Kendall is not alone. On the single other chair not covered with papers or scraps or random computer bits, is a familiar tattooed K-scientist.

Jonelle scowls at him, kaiju on her arms shifting menacingly. "What do you want?"

Travis stands in the doorway and debates whether a few scraps of information are worth life and limb. On the one hand, Kendall is his friend and will probably protect him from any earthly harm. On the other hand, Jonelle studies kaiju because she loves them, in the way that a microbiologist loves _E. coli_, and she's still sore about that one little time he maybe forgot to call her, and also she can be scary as hell sometimes, okay, especially when she's slicing and dicing with her arms elbow-deep in kaiju bits.

He swallows and bolsters up his nerve, because he is a Ranger, goddammit, he's faced down the kaiju spawn of Hell himself (in a Jaeger, admittedly, and with a partner at his side) and he refuses to admit the K-scientist scares him to cowardice.

He steps inside, looking to Kendall. "I brought provisions." He holds up the bottle of bootleg moonshine he got from one of the J-tech guys, who probably secretly have a still in the corner of the Jaeger hanger, and who can always provide one with whatever is needed. "You got room for one more?"

Kendall's face lights up. "Come on in, my friend, and take a seat." She moves a stack of papers off a chair; he sets the bottle on the floor and pulls a few shot glasses from his pockets. "Let's get this party started."

**XXXX**

After a few shots of alcohol that could melt the paint off the walls, Travis is pleasantly tipsy. Even Jonelle has mellowed, slouching in her chair, and Kendall has stretched out like a lazy cat, her feet in the scientist's lap.

He finally brings it up, while he still has a few brain cells firing. He mumble-rants about the whole Wes thing, eventually circling around to what Kate and Amy said about the Ranger. "What do they mean by _neurological_, you think?" he asks, shooting back another shot of alcoholic lava.

The answer doesn't come from Kendall, but from Jonelle, who waves a languid hand. "Well, yeah. Cuz of his thing. The OCD, you know?"

Travis and Kendall both look at her. "What OCD?"

She frowns, gesturing with her tiny shot glass. "You know. The thing. _His _thing. He's got it." Kendall obligingly refills her empty glass, and Jonelle tosses it back. " 's a real thing, you know. Actually affects the brain and everything. Some people think maybe it affects the Drift. Thinks maybe that's why he has trouble connecting with people." She gives Travis a look over her glass. "There's no helping you, though. You're just fucked up."

"Why thank you." His glass is painfully empty. He holds it out, and Kendall happily fills his up too. "What do you _mean_, OCD?"

This leads to an interesting conversation about OCD and mental illness and Drift mechanics. It involves a lot of sloppy charts written on half-buried pieces of paper and a lot of science talk that would go right over Travis's head even if he was sober.

What he gathers is this. Wes is different. And _because _he's different, he doesn't Drift.

_He can't Drift the way you can't Drift._

Travis takes another shot and tries not to think about all the evidence piling up, pointing to the fact that maybe he and Wes are actually quite similar indeed.

**XXXX**

"Why are you asking around about me?"

Travis lurches to an unsteady stop—or maybe the floor lurches beneath his feet, he's not quite sure—and turns in an even more unsteady circle. Wes stands there disapprovingly, arms crossed and a frown on his face.

Travis blinks, and helps to hold up the wall which is certainly not an attempt to keep from falling over. He thinks about the question and finally says, "Why not?"

Wes sighs, and even that sounds disapproving. "I don't like you asking all these questions about me."

Travis snorts. "Seriously? Dude, we're gonna be inside each other's _heads_ tomorrow. Might as well lemme ask questions. 's not gonna be a secret."

The blonde's face twists a little. "There's no guarantee it will work. The Kwoon test is merely a potentiality. It doesn't guarantee we'll be able to Drift."

"Don't sound so optimistic about it, man."

Wes gives him a long look, one that Travis can't quite parse out thanks to all the alcohol running havoc in his system. Finally the other man shakes his head, arms dropping to his side.

"If you bring your hangover into the Drift, I'll kill you myself."

Travis gives him a wide smile and a sloppy salute. "Copy that, dude."

Wes walks away shaking his head, grumbling too low for Travis to hear. Slowly and very wobbly, Travis turns and meanders back to his own room. He barely gets the door shut behind him, shedding clothes with every step, and when he collapses face-first into the pillow, he doesn't move for the next eight hours.

**XXXX**

He wakes up, and instantly wishes he hadn't. His head is an aching mess of pounding and throbbing, and not the good sexy kind of either verb. Something seems to have crawled into his mouth and died during the night, and his stomach is putting up a protest of the very harsh treatment it received last night.

He barely makes it to the tiny bathroom before he vomits. After what seems like a lifetime of retching, he flushes the toilet and shakily washes his mouth out with water.

He presses his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and groans.

That was a completely stupid thing he did, especially the night before his Drift test, and he regrets every single one of his life decisions.

**XXXX**

The mess hall is entirely too loud, like it's trying very hard to exacerbate the ache in his brain. Travis thinks about retreating and curling up under his covers until the test, but he needs coffee and food entirely much too badly.

He sees Wes, across the room as he heads for the line. The blonde is at the end of a long table, sitting across from Alex, and the two of them have their heads bent together, small and intimate. Travis wonders what they're talking about.

He wishes he had someone to talk to like that. There's Kendall, but he's not _that _close with her, not close enough to lean in and have a conversation like they're alone in a crowded room. Also, she's not in the mess.

The only person he ever had like that was Paekman, but Paekman is gone and Travis never got close to anyone else again, because he has issues and he knows it. Everyone knows it.

There's no one, and he can't Drift. Nothing neurological about it.

Travis drops his gaze and heads out of the mess. His hands are wrapped around his coffee, but the warmth isn't enough to make him feel better.

**XXXX**

By noon, he feels almost human. Still a slight headache, but he's been sucking down water all morning and he popped a couple of aspirin. Almost good as new. He stares at himself in the mirror and takes a breath.

"Let's do this."

**XXXX**

The thing is, there's not really a choice. They _need _Jaeger pilots. The kaiju keep coming and coming and they don't seem ready to stop any time soon, and the Jaegers are falling against the onslaught. They need every pilot they can get, because if every Jaeger falls then the world is doomed.

There are three Jaegers in the spaces that used to hold a dozen. There were so many, and now the names of the fallen spill out of his memories at a thought. So many fallen, but _billions _have been saved by the sacrifices of a few.

That's why he'll do it. No matter how much he hates Wes. No matter how big of an asshole the guy is, Travis will step into that Jaeger and drift with the man. Because there's no other option. No other pilots to fill the empty spaces.

They need everyone they can get, and Travis isn't so selfish that he'll walk away. Even if he has to Drift with Wesley fucking Mitchell.

**XXXX**

Wes gives him a look as they're suiting up, assessing and sharp. Travis grins jauntily back and tries not to show on his face that his stomach is roiling, and it has nothing to do with the vestiges of his hangover.

In just a few minutes, Wes is going to be inside his head. Travis will be exposed in ways he's never allowed anyone else to see, no one but Paekman. The knowledge that Wes will be exposed in the same manner does nothing to calm him.

The stronger the connection, the stronger the Drift, and he and Wes have nothing connecting them but mutual loathing. Travis doesn't know that that's enough to sustain anything.

**XXXX**

The drivesuit fits like a second skin, and he steps into the motion-rig without a second's thought. The right side—he was on the left, before, and he doesn't really want to have to stand there again with someone else on his right.

"Did you want this side?" he snarks at Wes. There's a momentary pause as the helmets come down, and then he sees Wes glowering at him through the faceplate. But Wes doesn't argue with him, which is his default mode when talking to Travis, so the silence is unusual.

Travis doesn't let it bother him too much. In a few minutes they'll be inside each other's heads. He'll figure it out.

**XXXX**

The Conn-Pod settles onto the Jaeger's shoulders, and Travis takes a breath. "Okay," he chirps, "remember, just let it flow. Let the memories pass by. _Drift_, don't hang onto anything."

"I know how to Drift, Travis," Wes snaps, that lovely familiar bite in his voice.

The reminder was more for himself than Wes, but sure, he'll pretend he was talking to the other Ranger. That works.

"Are you sure?" Travis teases. "It's been so long, maybe you forgot."

"Maybe I'll—"

"Rangers!" The Marshal's voice cuts Wes off. "This is serious. Please stop bickering like an old married couple."

They both pull a face at the comparison.

Alex's voice comes over the system, getting things set up. Travis glances over at Wes, giving him his most charming grin. "Seriously, though, remember. Just float. Go with the flow. It's all good."

Wes scowls at him and makes a rude gesture.

Alex's voice comes back, before Travis can do much more than make a face back.

"Initializing neural handshake in three…two…one…"

**XXXX**

The Drift starts, and there's a flash of blue, and the sensation of being sucked into a tunnel and spat out the other side—

_the man sits at the desk, large and imposing. he is your father but he has never been a dad, merely a man in your home. still, you have always tried to do what you can to impress him. now he holds up a report card, and the look on his face makes your stomach twist, and he says 'i'm disappointed in you, son'_

'_look here, son,' the shrink says, but you are nobody's son because nobody wants you, nobody claimed you, they left you and abandoned you and you are alone. but you are used to burying your anger where nobody can see, so you bare your teeth and call it a smile_

'_smile!' the photographer says, and the flashbulb goes off and it is the last photo of the day. you laugh and turn to her, and she beams in the sun. for this one moment, everything is perfect, and you pick her up and spin_

_spinning and lurching, and the ground heaves beneath you. you huddle in the doorway and wonder if this is the big one, the one that tears california apart, they always said it would come and maybe this is it. but eventually the shaking stops, and you crawl out of the rubble and think that everything will be okay now. except you get a call from your sister, and she's crying as she says 'something is happening in san francisco'_

**XXXX**

It's like dreaming, only not. He knows they're not his memories, recognizes them as _other_. At the same time, he feels Wes's emotions like they're his own.

An entire lifetime flashes between them in moments, and Travis lets himself float in the stream, because if he tries to swim, he'll just get swept away.

**XXXX**

_corrosive blue acid splashes against your ankles, and your first thought is for your ruined pants and boots, and you glare at the man on the other side of the table, merely intending to tell him off, but when you open your mouth_

_he opens his mouth and the first words are an insult, and your blood boils in a way that's almost unfamiliar, it's been so long, you haven't felt this sort of instant hate for someone since you were younger_

_he's not much younger than you are but he makes you feel old in comparison, and his eyes are bright as he bounces in place on the mat and says, 'i'm anthony, nice to meet you'_

'_nice to meet you' he says, plopping down on the other side of the table, a smile creasing his face as he holds out his hand. 'i'm david paek, but everyone calls me paekman,' and you smile back as you shake it_

(They both flinch away from these memories, and the Drift flows on.)

**XXXX**

Wes's mind is like him, all lines and angles, rigid and unyielding, with something throbbing underneath, a compulsion to do, to—and Travis can understand why people can't Drift with him, why they would have trouble fitting their minds together. There's no give, and most people can't just slot into place.

But Travis has never been rigid, always adapting and shifting into whatever he needs to become, and he flows through the spaces in Wes's mind, between lines and angles, and he fits in the gaps because he doesn't fit anywhere else, filling the holes with _himself_ in a way no one else can.

There are empty spaces inside both of them, on the edges of their minds where other people once resided. But in the middle, they mesh and merge and flow.

They Drift.

**XXXX**

'_what if it can't?' you asks and your stomach lurches at the thought because what if—she touches your face and says 'i wish you would stop blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault'_

_not your fault but paekman is dead, shot in an alley and left alone to die, gone like that and you know there's no one else, no one in the world, so you write a letter and place it on the marshal's desk and you're gone by noon, and you don't look back even when the news starts reporting_

_the news starts reporting and you turn off the feed because you can't stand to look, can't bear to see, and your hands twist together as you try to ignore it_

_ignore it, don't look, don't see, and maybe you can pretend that you don't feel guilty for leaving, even though you were useless, even though there was nothing for you to do, but people are dying out there trying to save the world and you're just sitting here waiting to die in the next attack and what good is that?_

**XXXX**

Everything is laid bare, down to the bones. Memories and emotions flow by, his own and not his own, but simply being there they become his own. They are his and not his and becoming his and he is Travis he is Wes they are _we_

**XXXX**

'_if you can't drift you're useless' he/we/you say, useless useless useless, you're so useless you can't drift messed up inside and nothing will be the same because you/we broke the day our jaeger broke and the stars are falling silver star is falling_

'_if you can't drift you're useless' he/we/you say and the words have claws reaching out and tearing into skin, my/your skin, hurting you to hurt myself because it's true, you/we/us useless and _

'_you can do this' she says and her hands cup your face 'you can do this I believe' but what if you can't, what if you fail and he dies and you/we can't handle that again not again_

'_we're still doing that?' he/you/we ask and she smiles and says 'absolutely' and it's not going to work, it won't work because it can't work you/we can't drift there's no one else you're/we're broken into a thousand pieces_

_if you can't drift you're useless but he can't drift the way you can't drift maybe maybe maybe_

**XXXX**

It's not coherent, not linear, but it makes sense. Everything suddenly makes sense.

Dr. Ryan is right. They are Drift compatible.

They're exactly the same.

**XXXX**

The Drift is strong. They can feel it, flowing between them, steady and endless, and Eleventh Hour rumbles to life beneath them. They _bring_ her to life, their connection giving her the energy to move.

Travis opens his eyes. _They_ open their eyes, and look out as one person with two points of view.

The Drift is strong, and their Jaeger hums around them.

In the massive hanger, Eleventh Hour shifts into a battle stance, and the people in LOCCENT cheer.

**XXXX**

There are congratulations when they emerge. Travis accepts grins and slaps on the back and laughs along with everyone else. Wes, on the other side of the room, accepts the congratulations in a more reserved manner, tight-lipped and tense, lingering close to Alex as though somehow she can block him from the attention.

There's a space in his head now, right on the inside of his skull, next to the empty space that used to have Paekman inside it. Travis can _feel_ Wes, even from here, can feel the unease and tension in the blonde at all the attention, and the overwhelming urge to go to his room and disappear. Travis laughs as Kendall rushes up to hug him, and his hands twist together in a familiar motion he's never made before.

They Drifted strong, so the Ghost-Drift is strong too. Even when Travis closes his eyes, he knows right where Wes is in the room.

All things considered, it's kind of amazing.

**XXXX**

"How did you know?" he asks Dr. Ryan as the congratulations fade and people float away.

The woman smiles, inscrutable and mysterious, like she can see still right through him even though she wasn't the one in his head. "I saw you fight." She pauses. "Well, brawl, really. In the hall. Even then, you were in sync."

Travis doesn't remember much of that fight, nothing more than fists and blood and adrenaline racing through his veins. It's certainly nothing like the organized, polite battles in the Kwoon room. The fight in the hall was unleashed and wild, baring their anger and frustration out on each other in abandon.

Travis has no idea what Dr. Ryan saw, but he can't fault that she was spot-on.

**XXXX**

"Hey! Wes!"

The blonde ranger pauses and turns, and Travis can see nothing on Wes's face but he can feel the tinge of annoyance that brushes across his temple. He resists the urge to shake his head. It's not physical; he just has to get used to it.

He pulls up to a stop. "Sorry. Hi, Alex." The smile that curls his lips is a bit more familiar than he intended. He tries to reign it back, turn it into something a little more professional, but he's not sure he manages.

They were married, Alex and Wes, back before K-Day happened. They went to the Jaeger Academy together, and Alex never became a pilot but went on to work at LOCCENT to support her husband. The stress of the kaiju attacks and the impending apocalypse strained their marriage until it broke, but they continued to be friends and support for each other.

Travis knows little more than her name and face, but he remembers their first kiss and the wrenching ache when they split apart and he can still feel the weight of a wedding ring he never wore on his finger.

Alex smiles at him, polite but understanding, like she knows what's going through his mind. Maybe she does—Wes used to have another co-pilot (_anthony I'm so sorry it's my fault I wish you'd stop blaming yourself_) so she probably got used to someone who wasn't her husband smiling at her like that.

"Ranger Marks," she says, with a little nod to her head. She turns to Wes, resting her hand on his arm. "I'll go ahead. You two need a minute to talk."

Wes's face suggests that a minute to talk is a minute too long, but he just nods shortly and crosses his arms. Alex gives Travis another small smile and resumes walking.

Travis takes a breath, feeling edgy for no reason at all. He can't pinpoint if it's his feelings, or Wes's coming through the Ghost-Drift. Maybe it's both. He shoves his hands in his pockets and feigns calm with the one person who can see right through it. "So. Uh. I thought we could talk?"

One pale eyebrow goes up. "Why?"

"Why? Why not?"

"There's no reason to _talk_." The muscles in Wes's arms tense, like he's clenching his hands again and again. "You already know everything."

"Not—not _everything_," Travis protests lamely, scuffing one foot against the floor. The Drift revealed—okay, it revealed a lot, but it didn't show _everything_. He was Paekman's pilot for almost two years, and right up to the end he was still learning new things about his friend.

Wes stares at him, eyes flat and hard, and the curve of Travis's skull feels cold. "I will be your co-pilot," he says, and his voice is as cold and hard as the Ghost-Drift. "I will fight beside you. But nothing more than that. I will not be your _friend_, Ranger Marks. So I'd recommend you just leave me alone."

It's a dismissal, clear and sharp, and Wes turns on his heels and stalks away before Travis can say a word.

Travis knows exactly why Wes said that, the remnants floating in the space between them.

It doesn't make the words sting any less.

**XXXX**

Travis can't Drift with people. Oh, it seems like he ought to be able to—his special talent is to ease and shift into whatever other people want, liquid as water. Adapt and survive, it's been his motto his entire life. Every time he changed homes as a kid, every new school and new group of foster siblings, he would shift and adapt because otherwise he wouldn't have been able to make it. It's his greatest strength. In theory, it should enable him to Drift with anyone and everyone he comes across.

In actuality, it's his greatest weakness. He adapts by moving on, by not letting connections run too deep because he might have to sever them in an instant. Before K-Day, he lived in a trailer, and he never had a relationship that lasted more than a month. Trust is a fundamental part of the Drift, and Travis can't trust anyone with that much of himself. Whenever he tried, there was always a part of himself he held back, refusing to let anyone see, and being unable to share that…it doesn't make a good Drift. It doesn't create compatibility.

Paekman was different. Travis doesn't know what it was about him, but Paekman put Travis at ease in a way no one else could. They were friends in a day—best friends in a few more. Travis allowed himself hope that maybe, at the end of the world, he'd found someone who would be there, who wouldn't leave him like everyone else in his life. When they Drifted, it was like finding another brother, the twin he never knew he had, and he'd known this was it. He and Paekman would be together till the end and they'd go down fighting.

But then Paekman died, which did Travis's trust issues no good, and Travis couldn't Drift. So he left.

Now there's Wes. It works with Wes, and Travis has no idea why. Maybe it's just because they're the same. Underneath all the trappings, they have the same insecurities and fears, a constant litany of _what if i can't _and _please don't fail not again_.

They don't have anything in common, but at their core, they're the exact same. They could be _amazing_ together. They could be the _best_.

But Wes wants no part of him.

**XXXX**

"I just don't get it." Travis kicks the legs of the office chair, idly spinning and watching the walls of Jonelle's lab flash by. "I mean, we've been inside each other's heads, dammit. What's the point of distancing himself now?"

"Well, now he knows what a dick you are, and maybe he's decided for sure he wants no part of it," Jonelle comments, studying something kaiju blue in a glass jar.

Travis sticks his tongue out at her and spins the other way. "Let it go, girl."

He hadn't intended to come here. Jonelle is not his sharing buddy. But apparently Kendall is pretty close to the K-scientist, because when he ventured to her lab, he ended up finding the tech down the hall in Jonelle's lab. And Travis just really needed to vent, so he parked in the chair in the corner and went with it.

"Maybe he's scared," Kendall offers from Jonelle's desk, feet up on the chair. She shrugs, shifting her gaze from Jonelle to Travis and back again. "I mean, he did lose a partner. That's got to make him wary of getting close to anyone again."

She's absolutely right, not that she knows it. That doesn't help Travis figure out what to _do_ about it.

He huffs, hands twisting together. "I don't know. God, it's hard to think. This place is a _mess_." He scowls at the room, at kaiju bits in jars and scalpels the size of hacksaws in trays. The room _looks_ clean enough, and Jonelle is strict about safety protocols, but Travis's skin itches and he can't fight the urge to wash his hands. He just _feels _contaminated sitting here.

But his drinking/venting/whatever-else-Kendall-is buddy is down here, so here Travis is.

Jonelle sighs, stripping off her gloves. "You guys are going to be Drifting together," she declares, picking up a bottle and stalking over to where Travis is perched on his designated chair. "Do you honestly believe he'll be able to distance himself for long? Hold out your hands."

Travis eyes the bottle. "Is it poisoned?"

The scientist rolls her eyes so hard Travis is afraid they'll pop right out of her head. "Yes, Travis, you got me. I poisoned my hand sanitizer just in case you came in here and felt my lab wasn't clean enough. Hold out your damn hands, you idiot."

He looks to Kendall for help, but the tech just gives him a raised eyebrow and a shrug, as if to say _Sorry, she might poison my coffee if I take your side, _so that's no help.

A gentle wash of affection swims through the curve of his skull, and a brief, momentary pulse of warmth surges through his chest, because, god knows why, Wes actually _likes _Jonelle. But that brief feeling is enough to have him hesitantly reach out, one hand cupped slightly.

Jonelle squirts a dollop into his hands and tosses the bottle into his lap. Travis rubs his hands together, surprised at how much _better_ he feels already. The sharp, alcoholic scent of the sanitizer cuts briefly through the acidly sweet smell of the kaiju remains in the lab, and something tense and relentless in his head eases.

"How did you know?" he asks, tucking the bottle into his jacket pocket. Jonelle gives him a sharp look but doesn't say anything, pulling on a new set of gloves.

"You Drifted with Wes," is all she offers, and that might have been cryptic a day ago but now, yeah, it's really not.

"Thanks," he says sincerely. He hadn't even known what he'd needed until she gave it to him, and he appreciates it more than he'll admit. (He makes a mental note to look up OCD later, thought, because it'll be nice to at least know some of what he's getting into for the future.)

"Don't mention it," Jonelle replies, in a tone that very clearly states, _Seriously, don't mention it, if you do I will put kaiju entrails in your bunk, shut up already._ Travis gets the hint.

"But seriously, guys, what do I do about Wes?" he asks plaintively, spinning the chair once more.

The two women make various sounds of uncertainty. "I'm sure you'll get along in a bit," Kendall offers. "I mean, as often as Jaeger pilots Drift, it'll be hard to keep your distance forever. So, you know, there's that."

"You're saying I'll just have to wait for my stunning charms to wear down his defenses in the Drift?" Travis questions sarcastically. "Oh boy, something to look forward to."

"Well, at least you don't have to wait too long to test that theory," Jonelle says, sticking her hands into something that's _oh god_ still pulsating slightly. Travis turns away before he becomes sick, simultaneously looking to Kendall for explanation.

The tech's face goes drawn and hollowed, suddenly looking ten years older in an instant. Quietly, she says, "There's supposed to be another attack tomorrow."

Travis stops spinning.

Jonelle stabs her blade into the kaiju flesh before her. "You guys might get to see how well things go after all."

Suddenly, Travis wishes for the easy, snarky teasing they'd had before.

**XXXX**

There's no guarantee he'll go out tomorrow. There's a pattern of attack, reliable enough so far, but that only tells when the Breach will spit out another kaiju. It doesn't tell where the beast will go. There are sensors for that, too, but still. There's no guarantee. The kaiju might head towards Asia instead. Or it might go north, or south, bypassing this little coast of America entirely.

Or it might head right this way, necessitating a Jaeger or two to meet it. Travis and Wes might just get called out.

He goes to bed feeling an awful mix of anticipation and dread curdling in his stomach, and he's not sure who it comes from, him or Wes. Maybe both of them.

He _is _sure the dreams come from Wes, though, sharp flashes of metal tearing and kaiju screams.

After all, he didn't lose his co-pilot in a Jaeger.

**XXXX**

Morning dawns with alarms and a summons. Travis scrambles into his clothes and rushes out of his bunk. Wes meets him in the hall. They share a look and don't say a word; they don't have to.

Dr. Ryan is there as they're suiting up. Travis holds out his arms as techs affix the drift suit. "You sure this is the best idea?" he teases. Wes glances at him sharply, but Travis doesn't look at him. It's way too early for them to start talking about unhealthy coping mechanisms. "I mean, we've only Drifted once."

"There's not much other option," Dr. Ryan says, cool as a cucumber. "Black Lightning is still being repaired, and November Eden isn't set to return from Anchorage for another three weeks." She gives the two of them a soft, reassuring smile. "I have faith in you."

That shuts up any other black humor that threatens to spill out of Travis's mouth. He swallows and nods, a silent salute.

Wes hasn't said a word yet, and he continues to stay silent.

As they drop, Travis glances over at Wes. "You ready for this?" he asks, mustering up half a grin. It's not very convincing, judging by Wes's look.

Unease (_fear anxiety worry_) flickers through the Ghost-Drift, and Wes lets out a breath. "Do I have a choice?"

Travis huffs, bracing himself as the Conn-Pod connects. Displays flare to life before them, and Eleventh Hour slowly wakes up.

"Not really."

**XXXX**

"Initializing Drift sequence in three…two…one…"

**XXXX**

"Category III Kaiju," Alex's voice tells them from LOCCENT. "Codename Daggerjaws."

"Tigress will attempt to intercept," Marshal Sutton orders over the channel. "Eleven, your job is to guard the Miracle Mile. If the kaiju gets past Tigress, it doesn't get past you."

"Yes sir," the two Rangers confirm. The choppers deposit the Jaeger into the water, and they gather their balance, standing at the ready.

The Drift is anxious and hazardous, a whirlpool of emotion and memories that make the Drift murky, choppy. Rough, when it was almost seamless at yesterday's test. Travis casts a glance at Wes.

"You okay there, man?" he calls.

Wes grits his teeth. "Fine," he responds shortly, even as another frantic flurry of memories passes between them.

Travis lets it go. They're Drifting fine—not smooth, but still strong as it was yesterday.

So long as neither of them get lost, they'll be fine.

**XXXX**

They can't see anything of the fight from where they are, but they hear it over the radio. Angry kaiju screams, and the sounds of Kate and Amy doing their best to take it out. Travis hopes they manage, because he's getting a little worried on his end—the Drift is getting more and more muddy, the same few scenes looping on repeat through their minds the longer the battle runs.

"I'm fine," Wes hisses at Travis's unspoken question, but Travis doesn't know about that, man. Wes's memories are bringing up a bad string of his own, and it's not pretty. This isn't going to end well if they have to fight.

And then they hear it.

"_Shit!_" Kate curses over the radio. "Daggerjaws got past us. Eleven, we're coming to you fast as we can, but you gotta hold it back!"

"Copy that, Tigress," Travis acknowledges. They shift into a ready stance, scanning the water for any sign of the kaiju, but the memories are looping faster now, the same thing over and over.

"Wes, man, you gotta snap out of it," Travis hisses. This is getting awfully dicey, and they can't afford that right now. "Come on, man, we can do this!"

Wes takes a shaky breath, shaking his head. "I'm fine," he murmurs, a relentless mantra that does little to ease the storm between them. "I'm _fine_."

"I believe you, man," Travis reassures him. "You just gotta _keep_ being fine for a few more minutes. We got this."

Wes nods.

"Eleven, we have a signal," Alex reports. "Sensors read the kaiju coming in from your one o'clock."

"Copy," Travis says, and they turn that way, scanning the water. Something sharp-edged and glistening blue-black cuts through the water—

_something sharp-edged and blue-black cuts through the water, and they try to react, but the Drift crumbles between them, and they can't move, and Leviathan screams—_

Daggerjaws screams, and Wes is lost. They're supposed to _drift_, to let the memories flow by without holding onto any one in particular, but Wes grabs the memory with tendrils of thoughts like claws and is swept away into the rush.

Travis could disconnect, eject them both, and wait for rescue. Eleventh Hour will probably be destroyed and the kaiju will probably get into the city, but it's not like they're doing much good like this. He _could_.

But Wes is his co-pilot, and Travis won't let him go into the dark alone.

He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and follows the R.A.B.I.T. down the hole.

**XXXX**

He can hear, dimly, voices from LOCCENT, the Marshal and Alex, rising in pitch as they monitor the situation, but it quickly fades to background. Reality fades away as the memory sinks in, and Travis is simultaneously watching from the outside and reliving every single agonizing second.

He is

**XXXX**

standing in the Conn-Pod, Alex's voice in his ear. "Category III, Codename Leviathan." Sensors indicate a massive body moving, but visual scans show nothing but rough water. An underwater beastie, then. Hethey try not to feel anxious, even though they're at a disadvantage. If something can attack them from underwater, where they have less mobility…

It doesn't matter. They'll protect the city. That's all that needs to happen.

"Neural handshake is fluctuating," Alex calls to them. "Is everything okay, guys?"

No, everything is not okay. There's something wrong with the Drift, a strain between them that shouldn't be there. The Drift is not as strong as it normally is, and he can only think it must be histheir fault.

They fought, a fight that should never happen between people who have been inside of each other's heads, words and secrets raised from the depths and tossed out like knives. They both hurt each other, and they didn't have time to apologize before the alarms sounded.

They're both pulling away, hurts still too fresh and roiling between them, and there's something wrong with the Drift.

He glances over, and Anthony meets his eyes. There's a silent agreement, and Anthony nods, an infinitesimal shift of his head. _You can't, _whispers between them, less words and more of a feeling, a sensation skittering down the back of his neck. _We can't. _

"Everything's fine," he reports, injecting as much confidence as he can into the words. There's something wrong with the Drift, something tenuous and flimsy in the connection between them, but there's a kaiju out here that needs to be stopped, so they'll have to solve their problems later.

Sensors beep warningly, and Leviathan bursts out of the water, jaw gaping, a terrible scream ripping from an acid-blue throat. They shift into position, reacting, grasping the kaiju by the throat and one slippery appendage, but the monster is slick and rubbery, hard to grasp. It wriggles free and dives back under the water.

The cannons rev up, whirring threateningly, and they scan the waters.

More insistent beeping, and something sharp-edged and blue-black cuts through the water. They try to react, but the Drift crumbles between them, and they can't move, Silver Star freezing in place as the neural handshake crashes completely. People are screaming over the coms, LOCCENT frantically demanding answers, and Anthony is calling out, and he's shouting into the mike, because they're blind, they're dead in the water and there's a monster in the deep, they need to get this back online—

Leviathan screams again, and metal tears, a gaping hole in the hell of the Conn-Pod. Too late, they press the buttons for the escape pods. The kaiju's claws wrap around Anthony, yanking him free from the motion-rig, and there's a terrible, horrible scream that's abruptly cut off.

He's lucky. He makes it into the escape pod, gets ejected into the water before Leviathan completely decimates Silver Star. He pops the top, despite the inherent risk, watches as backup arrives and quickly dispatches the kaiju. He watches the kaiju go down, and as the waters around him turn blue, he leans over the side and throws up.

They fish him out, later, they ask him what happened. Something was wrong with the Drift, he wants to tell them, but that's not true. There was nothing wrong with the Drift; there was something wrong with _him, _he pulled away and couldn't connect, and it got his co-pilot killed.

It's all his fault.

**XXXX**

Time is different, in the Drift. An entire lifetime passes in a flash, and memories pass in seconds. Still, despite knowing that it's probably only been a few moments since Wes chased the R.A.B.I.T., it feels like an eternity.

Travis is reliving it all again for the first time, and all he wants to do is curl into a ball and hide away from the world.

Instead, he walks through the tableau of Wes's memories, both an onlooker and a participant. All too keenly he can feel the loss, the guilt, swamping over him and threatening to capsize him until he's lost forever. Can feel the pain tugging at his own memories, threatening to pull his own demons loose. But Travis, he's always had an amazing ability to smile and be fine, pushing the pain away until he can deal with it on his own, and it's always been easier to focus on other people than himself, so it's a simple matter to do it now and focus on Wes instead.

The man in the memory sits, head bowed, alone and empty in a darkened room. Travis kneels beside him, looking into the face of a man who can't see him because this is a memory, and he wasn't really there.

That doesn't stop him.

"Wes," he murmurs, "it's only a memory. You have to let it go."

There's no response, no twitch of recognition that might even hint that he's getting through. Travis wants to reach out, but he's afraid if he does the illusion will shatter and the Drift will fall apart. Or worse, that the memory will start over again.

"Wes, you have to let it go. It's only a memory, and we need to fight."

Dimly, like remembering a dream, he can hear frantic voices from LOCCENT shouting over the comms, can hear alarms squealing as Daggerjaws starts to tear into their Jaeger. But here, in this memory, the room is silent except for Wes's harsh breathing and the dull pulse pounding between them.

Travis looks down at his gloved hands. "I can't do this alone, buddy. I need you. _Everyone_ needs you." He looks up, imploring, silently begging Wes to snap out of it. "Come on, partner, we can do this."

There is nothing. No flicker of movement, no shift in the memory. Just a man, hunched over himself like a piece of his soul has been hollowed out.

Travis laughs softly, tipping back on his heels. "Ah well." He lets his head fall back, the cacophony outside his head rising in pitch. "I suppose inside a Jaeger was always where I wanted to die. This isn't so bad, I guess."

There's a creak of wood and the rustle of cloth and metal. Travis looks back down and finds Wes staring right at him, eyes sharp. Still aching and pained, but he's looking _at_ Travis.

Travis smiles. "There you are." A pause, and Wes doesn't open his mouth but he doesn't have to. Travis's smile doesn't falter. "No, I don't think so either." He hops to his feet, holding out his hand. "Are you ready to do this, then?"

Wes continues staring at him for a long moment, and everything he's thinking flows between them. Finally, he reaches out, hand sliding into Travis's.

The dream falls apart.

**XXXX**

Travis's eyes snap open, and he gasps like he's just surfaced. His breath echoes in his ear, Wes taking the same breath at his side. They're in sync, and the Drift flows between them, a little tremulous but strong enough to count.

Daggerjaws hasn't gone onto the city. Instead, it has taken advantage of the defenseless Jaeger to launch a blow against its enemy. It's only been moments, because things happen so much more _instantly _in the Drift, but kaiju are made to pack a punch, and they can cause a lot of destruction in a few moments. Eleven's sensors read damage all over, and everything is red.

Hethey(we) take a breath, bringing their arms up to grapple the beast. Right arm is at 70%,left arm less, but they wrap around the kaiju's neck and hang on for all they're worth. The kaiju screams, mouth right outside the viewscreen, and Travis gets a close-up view of Daggerjaws's namesake, a mouth of massive, razor-sharp teeth, layers upon layers like a shark. And that mouthful of teeth is _much_ too close for comfort.

"We got cannons?" he shouts, checking his own readouts. The plasma cannons on his side of the Jaeger spin, but nothing is charging.

"Inoperable," Wes calls, and then he curses as his arm slips and the kaiju wrestles free. They whirl searching the waters, but the sensors are on the fritz and they can't see anything through the screen.

There's a harsh, wicked scream behind them, then a heavy force ramming into their back. The Jaeger, already damaged and precarious, topples forward, a giant, slow-motion domino. They twist, but their weapons are down and there's no way to get turned around before they go under.

As they hit the water, Travis thinks, _At least I'll die in a Jaeger._ That's not such a bad way to go.

Wes glances over, meets his eyes, and there's apology and understanding and a thousand other things in his gaze.

Travis smiles, softly, forgiveness in his thoughts, and lets out one last breath as he prepares to die.

A muffled explosion cuts through the water, and the kaiju screams—faint, but unmistakably in pain. Suddenly, the weight is gone off their backs, and their comms crackle to life.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, boys," Amy chirps, followed by the sound of another explosion. "We're here to save the day."

**XXXX**

In the end, Topaz Tigress gets the credit for the kill, since they were the ones who actually took down Daggerjaws. Travis and Wes…well, they made it out alive. Some days it's hard to ask for more than that.

The air is silent and tense as they get out of the drivesuits. Wes isn't looking at him, and there's a cacophony of emotion passing through the Ghost-Drift. Travis wants to address some of it, as well as what he saw in the Drift, but he knows better than to do it here. Even if Wes was willing to talk about it—unlikely, without some major prodding and poking—he wouldn't do it _here_, in front of anyone else.

As soon as they're in their civvies, Wes bolts like his ass is on fire, leaving an almost-tangible swirl of feelings in the air, thick enough to choke on. Travis sees Alex meet up with Wes, at the end of the hall, but then they disappear and he's left alone. He doesn't have an Alex to lean on, and the one person he _should_ be able to stand with right now can't even look at him.

Travis takes a few breaths, long and slow, forcing everything he's feeling down and everything Wes is feeling out. Push it away until he's empty and formless, until he can slap on a smile and convince the world he's fine, no matter how true that may be.

Travis takes a few breaths, and smiles, and he goes to congratulate Kate and Amy.

**XXXX**

There's a minor celebration going on for the two women. Travis doesn't stick around long. No one is _blaming_ him for what happened out there, or even sending him any dirty glares, but he still feels his skin tingle with the weight of judgement. His fault, it was all his fault, if only he'd—

Could have should have would have and he can't change any of it, but he can't help the feelings churning inside his stomach, either.

Wes's door is firmly shut when he walks by. He stops, raises his hand to knock, and decides against it. What good will it do? The man barely tolerates him, and Alex is probably in there right now. He'll want Alex much more than he'll want someone he can barely stand.

Travis drops his hand by his side and heads for his own room.

He lies on his bed for all of twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what went wrong. Over and over it runs through his head, but all he can come up with is _I didn't do anything _and _it wasn't my fault_ which doesn't explain anything. Except it sort of maybe does.

He gets up, pokes his head into the hall. Wes's door is still very firmly closed. Travis frowns and goes back inside.

He takes all the books off his single bookshelf, trying to think about what he can do. _Obviously_ he and Wes should hash some things out, because what happened today definitely can't happen again. So does he barge over there and knock on the door until Wes opens up or just wait?

He stacks the books back on the shelf, taking care to order them by size. Marshal Sutton will probably be coming by to talk about what happened, so Travis should probably wait for that to be over with. And no doubt Dr. Ryan will stop by, because shrinks like to do that no matter where they're stationed. So after that, too.

He takes all the books off his shelf and starts placing them, one by one, ordered by size. So he'll wait until Marshal Sutton and Dr. Ryan are done, and then—but no, Alex is there. She's probably been there since she followed Wes out, because Travis knows from his(_their/Wes's_) memories that Alex is pretty much the only person Wes would even consider leaning on for support right now.

He takes all the books of his shelf. Or would it be better to do this while Alex is there? She could be a—a _buffer_, or something, because Travis can only imagine how this conversation is going to go with Wes feeling guilty and upset and being forced to _talk_ about it all will only make him feel vulnerable.

He stacks the books on his shelf, one by one. No, having Alex there wouldn't be a good idea. _Because _she's the one person Wes feels comfortable accepting support from, Wes wouldn't want her to be in the middle of a conversation all about how he lost control and almost got himself and everyone around killed. Hell, Wes won't want to have that conversation with _Travis_, and Travis is the one who has literally been inside his head.

So he'll wait, he decides, placing the last book on the shelf. He'll wait for Alex to leave and for Wes to be alone before he heads over there. Okay. That sounds like a plan.

His eyes focus on the bookshelf, at the book under his fingertip and the half-piled stack on the desk because he's started to unload it _again_. Compulsion pounds at the inside of his skull until he's neatly removed all the books, sorted them, and replaced them. But it's not _his _compulsion, so he takes a step back and doesn't repeat the process one more time.

Instead, he picks Jonelle's stolen hand sanitizer up, squirts a dollop onto his palm, and goes to sit in the hall.

The hand sanitizer doesn't help much, and a thready pulse of need pounds at his brain.

**XXXX**

Travis waits. He sits on the short stairs to his bunk and he props his chin on his hands and he waits. He watches the marshal come, knocking sharply on the metal door. He enters the room, and Alex exits, lingering in the hallway. She smiles briefly at Travis, but she doesn't come to him. Travis waits.

He watches the marshal leave, and Alex returns to the room. Not too much later, Dr. Ryan comes by, rapping gently on the door. The door opens more reluctantly this time, a slow, painful opening, and Travis can feel how Wes wants to shut the door and never come out, an urge that almost has him climbing to his feet. But Wes opens the door, and Dr. Ryan goes in. Alex doesn't come out this time.

Travis pulls out the stolen bottle of hand sanitizer from Jonelle's lab and rubs it into his hands, and a touch of tension in his chest eases. He waits.

Jonelle stops by, bringing a tray of food in both hands. She lingers in the doorway briefly, long enough to say a few words and pass the trays over. When the door shuts, she turns and gives Travis a long, sharp look that seems to say, _Take care of him, he's your co-pilot so don't you dare let him down._

Travis returns her look with one of his own: _I won't, so just move right along_.

She rolls her eyes and goes. He waits.

Alex eventually, finally leaves, when the lights have dimmed for the night and the halls are near empty. She blinks a little upon seeing Travis; unlike all of Wes's other guests, she wanders over to where he's perched.

"How long have you been sitting here?" she questions softly. Her eyes are tight and worried, but it's not all for Wes. There's a glimmer of concern for himself there too.

Does he get such regard simply because he's Wes's co-pilot? Travis thinks he might have been mildly annoyed by that thought, except it's _Alex_. He hardly knows her, but he's half in love with her thanks to the Drift, and he can't be mad at her.

He gives her a small smile. "Long enough. However long it takes." His eyes shift to the firmly-closed door down the hall. "He's my partner now. Gotta be there when he needs me."

Her gaze softens, and she reaches down, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Thank you." They share smiles, two people who care about the blonde Ranger (and he does care, now, because he's bared his soul and he's seen Wes's in kind, and it's impossible to _not_ care after something like that), and then she moves off, sensible heels clicking dully on the hard floors.

Finally, muscles stiff and joints aching, Travis rises. He stretches, groaning appreciatively after all those hours sitting still. Then he hops to the floor, strolling down the empty hall. Lightly, with two knuckles, he knocks.

There's a sharp tinge of rejection that brushes through his mind. Travis tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. "I can wait out here all night, Wes," he calls through the door, letting his resolve bleed through. He's not going anywhere.

Wes doesn't say anything, and he doesn't open the door.

Travis waits.

**XXXX**

It's not more than five minutes he stands there, cooling his heels and humming softly to himself. It could have been a lot longer, but they're both tired after the day they've had and Travis kind of thinks Wes just wants him to go away.

He yanks open the door, glaring harshly at Travis. "What do you want?"

Wes has got lines around his mouth and an awful pasty quality to his skin, much greyer than his normal pale color. Give it a few more hours and he'll probably have nice purple bruises under his eyes. Travis frowns. "Dude, you look like shit."

The blonde rolls his eyes. "Wow, thank you for that assessment, Travis. I don't know what I would do without your keen insight. Go away." He shuts the door.

Quick as a flash, Travis sticks his foot in the gap. Which, as it turns out, is a huge fucking mistake, because those big metal doors are damn heavy, and Travis thinks he might have broken all of his toes. Maybe his entire foot. _Jesus_, that hurts!

He lets out a sound that's not quite a scream but pretty close, hopping back and clutching his foot when Wes hastily pulls the door open again. Wes stares at him, eyes wide and incredulous. "Are you an _idiot?_ What the hell?"

"_Impulsive_," Travis groans, hobbling to the door so he can hang pathetically off Wes's doorframe. "Reckless, maybe. But I wouldn't call myself an _idiot_."

"I would," the other Ranger grumbles, crossing his arms. "What do you want, Marks?"

"I think you can skip the formalities, don't you, man?"

"What do you want, _Travis?_"

"I want to talk."

Wes's eyes sharpen. "Why? We've said everything that needs to be said, haven't we?" He taps the side of his head, mouth twisted in a wry little scowl. "What else is there?"

Travis just stares at him and waits, ignoring the throbbing in his foot.

Wes crumbles first, backing up. "Fine, whatever. Come in, then." He turns and heads for the lonely little chair in his moderate little bunk—Travis is more than a little amused that Wes looks like he's hiding a limp. Ah, the Ghost-Drift is a wonderful thing, no?

Travis doesn't bother to hide his limp, hobbling into the room and straight for the bed. "That was stupid," he agrees with both Wes's spoken and unspoken assessment, cradling his foot in his hands. Wes glowers at him for putting his boots on the bed, but Travis doesn't care.

Wes crosses his arms in front of him, glaring holes into Travis's head. Travis sits there, rubbing his foot and trying not to wince too much.

And he waits.

**XXXX**

Wes's room is all lines and angles, just like his mind. Just like _him_. Sharp edges and straight lines, unyielding and slow to change. It's neater than Travis's is, and Travis studies the room, follows planes and edges and letting the silence fill the air.

Wes is the first to break, letting out an exasperated sigh. "What do you want, Travis?"

Travis clasps his knee, shifting his attention to the blonde. "We need to talk."

"But _why?_" Wes rises to his feet, pacing the narrow space. "Why are you pushing this? I almost got you killed, got us _both_ killed, not to mention the thousands of people who would have died if Daggerjaws got to the city." He runs his hands over his face, not quite looking at Travis. "I shouldn't even be here. So why are you even _bothering?_"

"Because you're my co-pilot," Travis says easily, like it's that simple because it _is_. "We'll talk it out, and then it won't happen next time."

"Next time." Wes fairly boggles at him before shaking his head with a rueful sigh. "I don't know if there's going to be a next time."

"Sure there is." Travis says this with all the confidence in the world. "Because there's no one else."

Resignation flares between them, a sad sort of feeling, and Wes sinks to the chair once more. "I hate you," he grumbles, with much less venom than he would have used just a few days ago. Travis doesn't mention it.

Wes exhales harshly, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Fine. _Fine_. Ask your stupid question."

Travis leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and very softly questions, "How did Anthony die?"

"Malfunction in the Pons mechanism," Wes replies without hesitation. "Minor damage that became stressed during the battle and couldn't sustain the Drift." The words come out in an instant, but they're flat, like being read off a piece of paper. There's not a single emotion there. Wes doesn't believe a word he's saying.

"Uh-huh." Travis runs his tongue over his teeth. "Then why do you feel so damn guilty about it?"

Wes clenches his fists, glaring at a spot on the wall, and anger/guilt/frustration flare in the back of Travis's brain. But Wes doesn't let it out, just takes a breath and says, mostly calmly, "You already know."

Sure, Travis knows. He saw it, in the Drift, chasing the white rabbit down the hole. But he's a man of action—he'd rather hear it said aloud than just see it and assume things.

And more than anything, Wes needs to get this out, instead of bottling it up and letting it fester and kill him. Kill them both.

The blonde closes his eyes, fists clenching and unclenching and Travis wonders just how badly Wes wants to hit him right now. He just sits there, patient as can be under the circumstances, and he waits.

He can sense the moment coming, that tipping point when Wes gives in. The other Ranger whirls, back stiff and shoulders tight, bristling like a cat. "It was my fault, okay!" Wes explodes, resuming his pacing. "When the Drift failed, I thought it was my fault! _I _got my partner killed." He rakes his hands through his hair, blonde tufts sticking up in spikes. "We had a fight, a stupid fight, and we were both pulling away in the Drift, but when he—he _died_, and I should have been there. If we were going to die, we were going to do it together. That was the _point_. But he died and I didn't and it was _my fault_."

Travis clasps his hands together and takes a deep breath, and the words are hitting too close to home. "I know what you mean," he mumbles. Wes glares at him sharply, but Travis just smiles and says, "You've been in my head too, Wes."

Travis should have been there. Paekman died in an alley, shot in the chest for _nothing_, and Travis should have been there, because they were partners and brothers and they were going to go down fighting, together in a Jaeger taking down a kaiju. All or nothing, that was how it was. But Paekman died alone, and Travis should have been there.

Wes had nothing to do with the malfunction that got his partner killed, and Travis didn't pull the trigger. But they both swim with guilt—survivor's guilt, because they were left behind when they should have been right there.

"It wasn't your fault," Travis murmurs, and he can see Wes bristling to object, but he pushes on before the blonde can say anything. "It wasn't your fault, but you should have been there and you _weren't_. And you weren't even connected at the time, but now there's a hole in your head and a space by your side and sometimes, even though he's not there, you still…" He brushes the side of his head with two fingers, a touch as light and empty as the space in his head where Paekman used to reside.

Wes is watching him now, staring, eyes dark and pained. Travis smiles, the motion thin and brittle. "I know, Wes. I _know_."

Travis's throat is tight, kind of like he wants to cry. He's not sure if that's him or Wes. Maybe it's both of them.

Wes slumps, leaning heavily against the desk. "So, now that we've both dredged up and unnecessarily bared our feelings, now what?" Denial and repression flurry between them, and Travis is starting to get the measure of the man before him.

Now Travis grins, bright and wicked like the past few minutes never happened. "Now we get to _bond_. Don't worry, I got some pointers from Dr. Ryan. We'll strengthen our connection in no time."

Wes groans, taking Travis's lead and pushing past the last few minutes of _feelings_ like it never happened. "This is going to be a disaster. We have _nothing_ in common."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Travis's smile softens, and he shrugs. "We both hate the kaiju. And we both want to save the world."

He watches Wes, and the words whisper between them.

_I think that's a pretty good start, don't you?_

**XXXX**

The mess is the same noisy, crowded affair it normally is. He lingers for a minute, tray in hand, eyes sweeping the tables. There's a spot over there, by Kate and Amy, clearly left open for him. Probably. He's not going to jump to assumptions, but he's pretty sure if he wanders over there they'll let him sit with them.

Travis turns and heads for the opposite side of the room, for the tiny table at the far end where Alex and Wes eat alone, surrounded by people but all by themselves. There's an open space next to Wes, too, because Wes has a bubble and people know this. Travis plops right down, clunks his tray on the table and slides into the empty space at Wes's side.

Wes ignores him.

Which, okay, it's not exactly unexpected here. Travis doesn't let it bother him even a little, just smiles and stabs a sausage link which is probably not made of pork or beef or any other type of common sausage-making animal. "Morning, Alex," he says to the woman across the table. "How was your night?"

Alex stares, wide-eyed, gaze moving back and forth between them but mostly lingering on Wes. Wes, who is sitting there, eating by rote like there's nothing unusual going on, and _that's_ strange, because she was there the last time someone sat beside Wes and she knows exactly what Wes is like when someone gets too far into his personal space.

"Good morning, Travis," she says slowly, slowly trailing her eyes to Travis. There's a question in there, one that Travis isn't going to answer. It's a question he _could_ answer, but it's not for him, and the answer is Wes's, and he's not going to go there.

She sees it in his eyes and there's acknowledgement there, a slight backing down in her gaze. "My night was good. Uneventful."

"Awesome. I've had nights like those." Travis takes a swig of orange juice and smiles like there isn't 155 pounds of annoyed Ranger sitting beside him, pretending he doesn't exist. "Not last night, of course. Had to stay with this one all night." Travis jerks his head towards Wes, a manic grin on his face. Alex's eyes widen. "We talked about _feelings_. He cried like a baby."

Wes very calmly picks up his knife and jabs it into Travis's arm. Not deep, not enough to break skin, but enough to definitely feel it.

Travis yelps dramatically and clutches his arm. "Rude!"

The blonde whips his head around, his glare rival to anything a kaiju can offer. "Rude? Like you're one to talk!"

Travis does the only thing he can.

He picks up his tray and dumps syrupy pancakes onto Wes's head.

There's stunned silence. The entire mess goes still, and it's like the entire world holds its breath.

Wes blinks syrup out of his eyes. His hand wraps around his glass. "Oh, you _child!_"

Orange juice splashes into Travis's face, and the world exhales.

Three Rangers and a handful of J-Tech guys have to break up the fight, which escalates to a full-blown food fight. They'll get reprimanded later—the entire _world_ is on rations, they can't just be flinging food around. But now, as four burly guys in jumpsuits drag them apart, Travis feels like there's a sense of equilibrium back that was missing since yesterday's battle. They're fighting, but it's not a _fight_; if it were a _fight_, they would bring up memories, things they saw in the Drift, things sharp and pointed to injure.

This is just _them_, bickering and fighting because that's what they _do_, that is the largest facet of _Travis and Wes_. They see each other and they fight, because it lets off steam and keeps both of them from blowing up.

He briefly catches a glimpse of Dr. Ryan, watching from the sidelines, and he suddenly wants to laugh at how _right_ she was. They're _perfect _for each other.

He can almost feel Paekman beside him, laughing bright and cheerful, quoting one of his stupid movies like _This is gonna be the start of a beautiful friendship. _

**XXXX**

They get reprimanded and reduced rations for the next three days.

Travis can't stop grinning.

**XXXX**

It's said that listening to music together is one of the best connections people can find outside of the Drift. Which is why late evening finds them in the Jaeger hanger, up on a gantry high above the noise and bustle of the crews down below. If they peered over the edge, they could look down at the workers, watch sparks flare as the Jaegers are repaired.

Instead, they lay on their backs, heads less than a foot apart. A pair of headphones twines between them, one bud in Travis's ear, the other in Wes's. Wes's MP3 player sits on his chest, and Travis stares at the ceiling as the music flows through him.

"Man," he sighs, "your music sucks."

Wes doesn't even open his eyes. "Better than the noise you call music."

"This has, like, saxophones. You know what has saxophones? Porn. We are listening to porn music, dude."

"I can't even understand the words in the stuff you listen to."

"At least my music has a _beat_." Travis makes a sad attempt at beatboxing. He's not looking, and the Ghost-Drift has faded, but he just knows Wes is rolling his eyes.

"A beat does _not_ make up for lack of lyrical composition, or the absence of any sort of _melody_," Wes growls, which leads to their next fight. Though lacking the vehemence and physicality of the food fight at breakfast, this one lasts twice as long and only ends when they sneak out and steal a radio from a workstation down below, abandoned for the night.

They return to the gantry, hissing at each other ("You _will_ return the radio, Travis, or so help me,") and finally settle on a station airing songs made long before either of them were born. They dangle their feet over the edge and lean on the rails, staring out at the hangers below while the radio plays between them.

There will be more battles, and more bickering. They'll probably die, but this time, Travis intends to go down the way he's always pictured; with his partner at his side, taking the kaiju down with him. He doesn't want to die. If he can, he wants to watch the kaiju burn and celebrate the end of the apocalypse when it happens. Because it _will_ happen, he believes that with every fibre of his being. Humanity is too fierce to lie down and give up when the stakes are this high.

Someday…

But right now, this is enough. Sitting on a gantry, his partner on one side and a ghost on the other, the air between them filled with the soft crooning of _Hey Jude _and the silence of the Drift.

**OOOO**

**I fudged so many things. So many. Sorry not sorry, because I'm actually really happy with how it turned out. I regret nothing.**

**Quote is, of course, from Pacific Rim. I took it from the novelization, but I'm pretty certain Rahleigh says the same thing in the movie.**

**Let me know what you thought! Reviews, comments, and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

**Until next time~!**


End file.
